Rachel Wise: Oh, where has my little dog gone?

Rachel Wise is a lifestyle-block owner and community newspaper editor. Jacoby Poulain is on maternity leave.

At the weekend I went out to get milk and petrol.

I came home with milk, petrol and a stray dog.

"What's that?" asked hubby as I carried it inside.

"Stray dog," I answered.

I'd spotted the dog on the forecourt at the petrol station, cold and shivering and sheltering from the rain. It had a cluster of petrol station employees around it, kind of poking at it and asking it "where did you come from?" in that silly voice you use for dogs.

I ignored them and went and paid for my petrol.

On the way out I forgot to ignore them and as a result I was told the dog had been running down the road and no one knew what to do with it.

So I took it home.

It was a smelly little wet dog, with something Jack Russell-y about it and a little bit fox terrier-ish round the edges. It was quite happy to be stuffed in a dog crate in the dining room and to eat leftover mince. I gave it a bean bag to sleep on, but it was a little afraid of beanbags so I replaced it with a sheepskin.

By the next morning it was a dry, smelly little dog and busting for a wee. Not wanting it to get any more lost than it already was, I put a collar and lead on it to take it outside.

"Not a town dog," I decided, after it shredded the lead with its teeth.

We went outside off the lead but under supervision; me fending off cats, chihuahuas and a whippet who all wanted to poke at the smelly wee dog.

It growled a lot and as I'm allergic to vets' bills I chucked him back in the dog crate before anyone bit anyone else, and started ringing all the places you ring when you find a stray dog.

Me to council animal control officer: "Has anyone reported a missing black and white Jack Russell-y dog?"

Council dog bloke: "Nope."

SPCA: "Nope."

Radio station: "Nope."

Hubby: "This is beginning to bother me."

I resorted to the internet and put the dog on find-a-pet and lost-a-pet and everything in between.

I checked my emails and picked up the phone several times to check it was still working.

By now the dog had eaten its way through a large bowl of dog biscuits and I was resisting the urge to give it a name, but it didn't need one - it wouldn't go away far enough to need calling. It was, in fact, glued to my side. The stray dog was my new best friend.

Someone had to be looking for him. Please? I mean, he was cute but one more dog in my house could tip a very delicate balance.

Hubby was beginning to frown each time he walked past the stray dog.

"Is that still here?"

"It might be ..."

It was still there on Monday morning, when we established that none of the vets recognised it and it didn't have a microchip.

But by lunchtime someone had rung the radio station, who had rung the SPCA ... the dog had an owner and they were coming to get it.

Hubby got home that evening and asked me where "my" dog was. "Gone home," I said.

"He was kind of hard case," said hubby.

I wonder if that means I'm allowed to "find" another one? I still have the number of the SPCA.